Friday 21 November 2014

DEATH VISITS THREE TIMES, THE LAST A FRIEND AND GOOD MAN!

We are
a fantastic species. For millennia we saw comets in the sky as messages from
gods, omens of defeat and disease, yet now we have landed on one. A tiny craft
made here travelled 300 million miles through the void, hit the bullseye and
then plonked itself down on the comet’s surface.

You’d
think we were almost gods ourselves, were it not for death. Struggling with the
knowledge of our inevitable death we show our humanity, rather than our
divinity.

We’re
going to die one day. We don’t know why we’re here and we don’t know how to
face death so comet schmommet, we’re not gods at all.

We are
human, blessed with the 4 Effs of Humanity. We are fallible, freaked out,
fucked up and fantastic.

I’m a
big fan of humanity: both the race and the emotion. In the last week death has
visited my life three times, in wholly different ways, and I’ve given thanks to
humanity for easing my pain.

You
might mock the first of my deaths but tread carefully. There can be more to a
plant than mere vegetable matter, and Perfect White Geranium and I had history.
Back in 1995 I left the West of Ireland to make a new life in California.

Tragically it didn’t work out, so when I returned years later, I shared a place
with my friend Artist In Blue Towel. I’d given her all my plants when I left
and then forgotten them, so I was thrilled when she handed me back my white
geranium.

I cut
a branch off it, stuck it into another pot and gave it to my friend. This new
plant thrived, as did the mother plant, for decades.

Over
the years I lost count of how many cuttings I took off Perfect White Geranium.
I became quite cavalier, even showing off a little at how easy it was to create
a new plant.

Look, just take this central stem, chopped at both ends, and
d’naaah, another plant.

Perfect
because the plant’s leaves were flawless, large, deep dark green: memories of a
life loved, lost and regained.

So
when the stem went black in the pot, I knew its time had come. Everything dies.
Being a nurturer I’d be sad to lose any plant, but this one was almost a
friend.

If I
wasn’t writing this in public, I’d say Perfect White Geranium was a friend, but
generally people expect friends to have heartbeats, so when I then heard about
the dog that had died, I was deeply sad.

Admittedly
at the time I had consumed a small bucketload of whiskey, as we were mourning
the loss of a true human friend, but Una didn’t know that I hadn't heard that
Boogie had died, and all of a sudden tears were exploding from my eyes.

Una
looked a little surprised and distressed, until I explained that her black
labrador and I had formed a strong and permanent bond years ago, while her
family, all of us in fact, were experiencing trauma.

Death
makes little sense at the best of times. When it takes a tiny spirited unique
child, you find yourself hugging the dog.

Third
of the three and left until last as it hurts the most, the death of my friend
Tim. Another gone far too young, we knew death was on the agenda as he’d been
living with cancer for a long time. Throughout the surgery and the ensuing
disfigurement, Tim remained as stoic, brave and dry witted as he ever was.

Tim
was one of those people who are built purely of the essence of themselves. When
I visited him in UCH a few days before he died, he showed not one single change
of character.

Of
course he felt emotions just like any human, but Tim was English: he kept a lid
on it.

So
when I ran out of football smalltalk and dared to venture from the safety of
Boy Chat into the No Man’s Land of Human Talk, he had no time for it.

I
asked him if he’d watched the game the previous night. He nodded but explained
he’d not seen all of it.

“So
tired.” he whispered, leaning back on the pillow.

“That’d
be your body fighting the illness.” I offered, knowing it was no such thing.

Tim
looked over to me and smiled.

“Nah.
T’isn’t.” he said, forcing me to nod in agreement.

The
silence that followed was laden with truth; the simple yet devastating truth
that he was struggling to stay alive.

After
my visit Tim texted me to say thanks for coming in. Away from his bedside I was
allowed to once more leave the shores of Safe Man Talk, and text him back that
he was a good man.

Smily emoticon came back, his way of saying “Goodbye” to my
“Goodbye.”

He was
a good man. It was said in the church by many. It was said in the pub by many
more. It was the summation of the man. If our lives are to be summed up in five
words, I can think of none finer.

Once
you’ve popped your clogs it makes no difference whether you climbed Everest or
won X- Factor. Did you live a just life? Did you do harm? Did you love others?

The
sadness that accompanies each death is as different as the human gone. When
Tim’s coffin came around the corner of the street, carried by close friends of
mine, my emotions went into spasm.

Yes,
he was loved by them and I am part of them and even though I now live far away
I am still so much a part of this and whooosh ... my tears flowed.

Tim
was humanity on legs, the human race in a single person. Yes, he was flawed; a
smile appeared on my face each and every time I saw him; he was a good man.